What We Leave Behind

I’m so fucking late.

The pavement sputters beneath my wheels as I brake. I toss my bike haphazardly against the rack, forgoing the lock and scrambling up to the restaurant. The lanterns outside aren’t lit yet, which means my parents are still preparing for the night shift. Good. I still have time to make up a believable excuse.

I swing the door open. Yao Su Rong’s crooning pours out into the street, accompanied by the faint crackle of radio static. The song is velvet on the ears— a sweet thing cut short by the sight of Dad standing at the bar, arms folded.

“Thirty minutes, Satoshi?”

“Come on,” I groan, dropping my bag behind the register, “Give me a break; you guys have been doing this for years without any trouble.”

“That’s because we follow the rules.” Kei’s smooth voice leads me to the kitchen where they’re adjusting the heat beneath one of four large pots. Even with their back to the doorway, I can tell they’re smiling; they can never stay mad at me for long. A gentle nudge says they’re mostly grateful I showed up safely.

“And one of the most important rules is to get here on time,” Dad adds as he passes us.

“Cutting corners like this will get you killed.”

Kei shoots him a look, but keeps silent. He’s right.

“Well, at least you’re here now,” they sigh after a moment.

“The only thing you’ll really have to do is mind the stove. Your father and I took care of most of the opening tasks already.”

I lean over my parent’s shoulder to survey the array of soups, inhaling the harmony of spices swirling toward my face. Kei passes me a ladle from the pot closest to them.

“Taste this. We made some minor changes to the spicy miso recipe.”

I blow gently, then sip. Tonkotsu. The soup is richer than usual, its sharp flavor and scent threatening to overwhelm the senses. An elbow presses into my back as I savor the broth. Dad is standing behind me, a bulging trash bag in each hand. He holds them out.

“Take these to the alley.”

I grimace. The bags reek of old vegetables and rotting meat, a scent that chases me as I waddle across the kitchen. Dad props the back door open for me while he shuffles through his pockets for a cigarette. There’s a quick spark. He brings up a hand as if to shield the flame, but I catch his smirk. Bastard. A plume of smoke billows out of his mouth, briefly obscuring his face before dispersing into the summer night.

“What’s in here?” I hiss, setting the trash down to tie my shoes.

“Leftover ogre.” I can’t tell if he’s kidding.

“These are heavy as shit. There’s no way I’ll make it back in one piece.”

“Don’t be like that. You’ve made the trip before.” Dad heaves one of the bags onto my shoulder. Leakage soaks into my shirt. God.

“Just grab the other one and sprint.” Dad checks his watch. “It won’t take more than a minute. I’ll time you.”

“I know how long it takes.”

“Then it shouldn’t be a problem.”

I squint into the darkness. The dumpsters are about a hundred meters away, their faint silhouettes an ink-veiled taunt from the gaping mouth of the alley. I’m still in the safe zone— the column of light spilling out from the kitchen— but I toe the line with my sneaker and take a deep breath.

“Ready?”

I nod. Slowly exhale. There’s no getting around it.

“Go.”

It takes me seventeen seconds to make it there. I’m still counting as I swing the first trash bag into one of the dumpsters, ignoring the small spray of meat juice that hits my shoes. As I turn to the second bag, something catches my attention. It’s subtle— a silent, deliberate movement from several feet away.

Twenty-two.

Twenty-three.

Twenty-four.

Something foul fills the air: the acrid smell of charred flesh and splintering skin, flaking onto the concrete. I think of a body veiled in melted plastic. Of a mouth wrenched open in anguish. Of the words MISSING WOMAN FOUND on the TV screen once when I was ten, followed by low-quality civilian footage of our restaurant. I straighten, eyes locked on the figure slowly rising from behind one of the bins.

The face was a mess, Kei had said. It took them weeks to identify her.

Dad found her wandering the alley one night while on his way to take out the garbage. It’d been about a week after the police had taken her remains. He figured it was the shop’s doing. Called the restaurant a “magnet for spirits”. Keeps ‘em anchored between life and death, he’d explained.

The poor thing followed Dad right up to the back door and dissipated as soon as the kitchen light touched her, leaving behind only the lingering scent of smoke. My parents saw no reason to chase her out seeing as she was mostly docile, but that became less true over time. Kei described the woman’s anger as a stew, simmering gradually on the heat before boiling over. Each encounter made her more aggressive, her form warping with rage, until she simply became the Alleyway Devil.

Twenty-seven.

Twenty-eight.

Twenty-nine.

I’m not sure what’s worse: the growing heat, or the fact that I can almost make out her melted features as my eyes adjust to the darkness. I retreat with each of the Devil’s steps forward, careful to maintain the same pace as her. The task is excruciating. It takes all of my willpower to keep my legs from shaking.

I swallow. I know she hears it.

There’s a soft clink. A glass bottle rolls out of the Devil’s path. She freezes, then lowers her body slightly.

Fuck.

No time to think. I chuck the trash bag at her head and run.

Thirty-two.

Thirty-three.

Thirty-four.

The distraction gives me a head start.

I’m sprinting with my eyes shut, concentrating on the sound of bare feet slapping against the pavement. The temperature rises as she closes the gap between us.

Thirty-eight.

Thirty-nine.

I risk a peek ahead of me. Dad is still standing in the safe zone. The cigarette falls from his mouth as Kei comes outside, a shotgun in their hands. I must’ve taken longer than they were comfortable with. My chest burns as I watch them load it.

Forty-four.

Forty-five.

Forty-six.

Almost there.

My legs are ready to give out. I abandon counting. Instead, I focus on narrowing the distance between my parents and I, disregarding the searing protest in my lungs.

The Devil’s breath wisps against the back of my neck. I realize, fleetingly, that Dad has never mentioned what happens if she catches you.

Kei aims the shotgun directly at my head.

They wouldn’t. No way.

“Just a few more feet!” they call.

Dad steps forward. Something rakes across my shoulder blade as I reach for him, white-hot, deep enough to cut through both shirt and skin. I don’t have enough air to yell, but my knees buckle. Someone curses— I think it’s Kei. Dad grabs hold of me before I can collapse, pulling me past the safe zone. I slump against him. Behind me, there’s a wail. The reverberation threatens to stop my heart.

Then the scent of smoke fills the air.

It’s silent. Nobody moves. I can feel Dad’s chest rising and falling, his grip still tight around my back. Kei releases a heavy breath.

“Well you lucked out, honey.” They cast me a smile. “Don’t know how I would’ve broken the news to your sisters.”

I glance downward. The shotgun in their hands is trembling.